


La Chute

by duckiesinaline



Series: La Petite Mort [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M, PWP, back porn, no excuses whatsoever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3645432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckiesinaline/pseuds/duckiesinaline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michel dozed upon his stomach - not a favored position, Arno knew - head turned toward the wall and away from the bright square of sun streaming through the single, tiny window. A soft, intermittent snore occasionally escaped the awkward position, muffled by a pillow pushed askew. Naked from the waist up, the diffused glow highlighted a powerful back; outlining all the sleek, dense muscles and the long curve and dip of the spine.</p><p>It also did nothing to hide the bruises that were already beginning to spread, sickly red and purple, like inkblots across the wide expanse of shoulders and ribcage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Chute

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know how this happened. I've literally had another idea as a sequel to La Petite Mort for literally months, and suddenly all of this was conceived and spilled out in one afternoon. So here, have a part 2 that really should have been a part 3! But which all doesn't matter cuz it's all PWP anyway. \o/

The sun was already high above the horizon when Arno returned to the room, filling it with a honeyed, melting heat. It was warm enough that the single occupant had kicked off most of the sheets, leaving only a single corner draped partially over his legs while the rest dripped off the side of the cot.

Michel dozed upon his stomach - not a favored position, Arno knew - head turned toward the wall and away from the bright square of sun streaming through the tiny window. A soft, intermittent snore occasionally escaped the awkward position, muffled by a pillow pushed askew. Naked from the waist up, the diffused glow highlighted a powerful back; outlining all the sleek, dense muscles and the long curve and dip of the spine.

It also did nothing to hide the bruises that were already beginning to spread, sickly red and purple, like inkblots across the wide expanse of shoulders and ribcage. Arno's mouth tightened as he closed the door soundlessly behind him, slipping the small bottle of unguent he had left to retrieve that morning out of his pocket.

Even last night, just a bare hour or two after their return, Michel was stiff enough to need help in shedding his outer layers. The long evening, particularly when forced to sleep on his front, had probably done him no favors. Even now, Arno felt a tiny slither of worry when his shadow fell across Michel's face and the man did not stir, not until he crouched and laid a firm hand upon the back of the man's shoulder, careful to avoid the bruising's florid boundaries.

"Peace," he said, pressing against the automatic tension that arose at his touch, and there was only a split second's stillness before Michel relaxed again, breath hissing between his teeth.

"'Less you brought breakfast, go 'way," the man mumbled, voice rough and gravelly.

Arno snorted as he settled a hip upon the narrow cot's edge. "It's already lunch time, but I have something better than both."

"Liar," came the miserable groan as Michel tried to shift positions, and just as quickly gave up with only his head half-turned, nose mashed against the bedding.

"I think you should choose your words with better care, considering what I'm promising," Arno noted blandly as he uncorked the bottle's wide mouth. It was potent stuff; immediately, the ointment's spicy, minty scent began to permeate the space.

"I don't hear any promi - " A pause, a short hitch of breath as Michel fought with himself, and then he convulsed in a pitiful, half-strangled sneeze. "Oh god, the devil take you, you miserable bastard, _ow_ … "

Arno rolled his eyes even as he felt a small clench of sympathy. "And who was it who decided to take a leap of faith without something to land on at the bottom? It's not exactly called a leap of stupidity."

"Shut up, I did not leap, I _fell_. And that roof was soft enough. Just not the rafters beneath it. Or the ground."

"A wonderful Assassin you are, who would rather be known for falling than for doing something stupid," Arno drawled, pouring a coin-sized puddle of the viscous oil onto his palm and warming it between his hands.

"I don't think that's exactly the argument you're - _ow_ , what the hell are you - !" A streak of profanity followed the sweep of Arno's hands over Michel's shoulderblades, and the clarity of the expletives was almost reassuring after the slurred, half-drunken ripostes that had been coming before. "Just toss me to the Templars and get it over with," Michel moaned after a weak attempt to crawl out from under Arno's attentions.

"I've seen you take a worse beating from Mathis in your training bouts," Arno huffed in exasperation, though he grudgingly tried to lighten his touch even more. Carefully considering how far down the damage went, he pushed himself up and swung a leg over the prone form, straddling the man's hips.

"Liar," Michel repeated, muffled, face buried against the thin mattress. But Arno could feel how the man shifted and then tried to relax beneath him - and it was gratifying to understand that it was only discomfort that maintained what tension remained, even in such a uniquely vulnerable position.

"Perhaps you will be happier to know, then, that your fall conveniently distracted the guards long enough for me to get the scroll back … "

The rote recital of events Michel had missed helped to distract Arno from the breath-stealing image of when the Assassin had been knocked off a crenelation. Arno could actually recall few details after that moment beyond the broad strokes of his actions, not until he had finally managed to make his way down to the roof Michel had fallen through far below. Even then, it had been a distant, numb stillness that had gripped him as he had dropped down beside the limp figure; startling the small ring of family members that had gathered around their unexpected guest into scattering with panicked shrieks. The first sensation he could actually recall with hard-edged clarity was when Michel had abruptly coughed, moaned, and rolled over … could still remember the hard thump of his heart as adrenaline flooded in along with relief, making his hands shake as he had roughly pulled the man to his feet and out the door.

Muscles bunched and twitched beneath his hands; skin warmed from more than just the light contact, nerve-ends set tingling from the balm. Arno was generous with the portions, using up over half the bottle as he first painted the largest groups of bruises; a splash across the back of the right shoulder where the muscles lay thick and dense, then a deep bar across the left side of the rib cage, perhaps due to a crossbeam. Ingrained reflexes had, at least, rolled Michel just enough to protect his spine from each impact, and physical conditioning had shielded the softer organs, a smattering of smaller blotches blooming across the hard muscles in the lower back. But Arno could tell from the way the man flinched as he pressed gently on even unmarked skin that there would be more florid spreads soon.

Blowing out a long breath, Arno fell silent as he coated his hands once more and rose up on his knees, pressing them into the sides of the man's hipbones; a warning to remain still. Leaning his weight forward, he sought out the small sections of undamaged flesh he had mapped out … and dug his fingers in mercilessly, dragging a hiss and shudder out from the Assassin.

Michel's hands curled and clenched in the bedsheets, but true to Arno's cue, did not attempt to escape. There was only a single, plaintive curse when Arno worked on a particularly hard knot just beside the neck, until the muscles finally began to melt into pliancy … and then, all at once, it seemed as if everything let go, and Arno barely had to dig climb-callused fingertips or scabbed knuckles in at all to get the spine to soften its tense line beneath him.

Now, instead of the pained groans, there were only small, appreciative noises as Arno worked every inch of unmarked skin until Michel's entire back gleamed with oils. The room was now filled with the scent of spice and warmth, and without thinking, Arno spread his hands wide upon the man's shoulders and finished with a slow, heavy drag down the long line of the Assassin's torso.

Michel's breath caught and a shudder rolled through the length of his body - and Arno _felt_ it, between his knees, between his thighs when he had moved back to settle on his heels, against the slow pool of heat that had gathered in his groin, all unwittingly.

Arno blinked, suddenly aware of the near-trance he had fallen into while he worked. He stared at his hands where they rested, low and intimate, just beneath the small of the man's back. Feeling somnolent and over-warm, he shifted his weight, settling himself more deeply against the rear he had straddled, and let his thumbs stroke those few inches down farther, to sweep oil-slicked pads across the skin beneath the striped waistband.

Michel huffed and tensed - but only to give an unmistakable roll of his hips; the smallest angling forwards and back.

Arno laughed soundlessly - just a shiver of breath out of his lungs - as he kneaded the muscle just above the man's hips and leaned over to kiss the hollow of the spine. Michel's scent was buried beneath the oil's pungency, and suddenly regretting the ointment's necessity, he stretched up to graze his lips against the back of the man's neck, nosing against the short-trimmed hair at the base of the skull.

Fingers grazed Arno's knee; Michel was too stiff to bring his arm up and back to touch farther than that, but the small sensation seemed all the more poignant for it. Arno breathed out, kissed bare skin one more time, and then pulled back to slide his hands beneath the man's trousers, tugging them down.

There was a far more selfish motivation this time as he dribbled more unguent over the bared ass and stroked his hands across the firm muscles. It earned him a wry snort from his patient, and an indrawn breath for what might have been some irreverent remark - but it was swiftly bitten off as he swept one hand around the crease of the thigh and stroked a thumb up the smooth skin of the perineum to rest, circling, against the creased entrance just above.

"S'like to ruin all your hard work," Michel breathed, anticipation audible even through the warning.

"Who said I'm done, yet?" Arno murmured back, smirking as he snuck a hand beneath to grasp the man's filling length as he gently pushed his thumb inside.

Michel gave a single buck into the sensations before he went limp again with a curse, and Arno felt no remorse at all as he saw the rising flush slowly staining the pale skin, felt the clench around his thumb and the flesh growing firm and heavy in his hand. He leaned over, poised upon his knees, to nuzzle against the dip of the man's spine again; when a brief taste proved the residual oils too bitter to stomach, he huffed in frustration and blew chill air across the spot instead, making the man shiver convulsively.

"I want … a real damned doctor next time," Michel bit out, dragging an arm up to brace beside his head as he spread his knees between the cage of Arno's legs. "Not this … hodgepodge treatment of yours."

"Oh? Would a real doctor do this for you?" Arno snorted, abruptly tightening his grip as he unceremoniously slipped his thumb out to press it, firm, against the soft skin just behind the balls.

Michel squeaked, hips jerking, and this time there was not even a token exclamation of pain when his back spasmed. "You're worse than the Templars," he panted, "just put it in me already - "

"I highly doubt the Templars would listen to you as I do," Arno said loftily as he rubbed oil-smeared fingers together for a moment before sliding two inside this time.

" - when it suits you," Michel groaned through the distraction, eyes closing even as his mouth fell open, slack against the sheets as he curled into the sensation. "And they wouldn't be so damned coy. I said put it in me already."

Arno's ready witticism died as he caught on and blinked. "I'm not sure that's a - "

"I fell on my back, not my ass."

Arno paused, mouth still open, before a snort escaped. "You might have been in better shape if you had!" Still, he was suddenly all too aware of his own need with the reminder, and he had to swallow past a throat that had gone dry in anticipation. "Are you sure?"

Michel snorted in turn. "I've seen you haul yourself up a wall by your arms alone. If you fall on me, I'll use your phantom blade on you for target practice."

"Not much of a threat; we've all seen how terrible you are with its aim," Arno scoffed, but he was already giving the man a last stroke before pulling back, working at the fastenings of his clothing with fingers made clumsy by both oil and impatience.

He took only enough time to undo the placket of his trousers, exhaling through his teeth as he finally took himself in hand. It was only a few rough strokes to bring himself to full hardness, and when Michel obligingly shifted with heavy movements to pillow his head against his arms, Arno released a long breath and leaned his forehead against the back of the man's bared neck.

He let himself sink into Michel with exquisite slowness, savoring the unhurried sweetness of the moment. He drank in the low groan that rumbled through the cage of the ribs beneath him; let himself toy with the distance between them as he slowly bent his arms and then braced - still and unwavering - when his chest just brushed the warm shoulders underneath. He snugged his hips close, gave them a careful, experimental roll - and gasped along with Michel as the man clenched tight around him.

He rocked lightly, barely even withdrawing before he was pushing insistently in again. With his legs caging Michel's, he nudged them even closer, and arched to grind deliberately into the narrow grip of the man's body, panting. It only took a few moments before he felt the sweat gathering between his shoulders, in the pit of his spine, but everything was liquid and golden in the afternoon light and he found to his surprise that he did not mind the extra heat. It made his limbs feel pleasantly heavy - the very air seemed thick and languorous - and when he bent down again, Michel turned his head, and Arno accepted the invitation to nip at the lobe of the ear, to kiss the corner of the mouth.

All of Michel's flexibility and strength had been curbed by the recent accident, and it was both oddly gratifying and deeply disconcerting to have to take so much care with a form that he commonly associated with brute force and banked ferocity. Michel rocked back in intermittent moments to meet him, but every movement was made with a deliberation the man had never shown - never needed - before.

"That was the stupidest fall," abruptly burst out of him, startling enough that his rhythm faltered.

"And you are the most terrible nursemaid," Michel retorted, startled not at all.

Arno fell still altogether, panting from more than just mere exertion, braced upon his hands and the splay of his hips against the man's ass as he stared down at Michel. His brows pinched as the man sighed gustily and worked a hand around Arno's wrist, giving it a squeeze. "Come down."

"What?"

"I said come down. Lay on me."

"I thought you didn't want me to - "

"Oh for god's sake, I said lay on me, not fall on me," Michel growled, nudging fruitlessly at Arno's arm. "If that's what's going to prove to you I'm not going to break, I'll gladly take the bit of discomfort."

Arno started to rear back, indignant - except he was handily distracted by the dig of nails around his wrist at the shift and the quick suck of breath beneath him and the accompanying toe-curling _squeeze_ of the man's body. " - like it," Michel gasped. "I would like it … not the pain, but it'd feel good."

Arno wasn't sure if it was just an excuse, but he was beginning to feel a little ridiculous arguing about it while he was buried to the hilt inside the man. Finally, after a harsh exhale, he more threatened than entreated, "Tell me if it's too much," and then curled his arms beneath Michel's shoulders to brace them both.

"You are a pain in the - " Michel began to grumble before Arno pointedly spread his weight across the man's bruised back. The man hissed, automatically flattening himself to avoid the pressure, and Arno could not help a more aggressive press to follow as everything beneath him tightened _deliciously_.

He became distantly aware of the strained sound escaping Michel, but when he tensed to jerk back, the man hissed, "Don't you dare." Frozen, uncertain as to what to do, it was a few heartbeats before he realized that Michel actually _was_ relaxing by slow increments; tangible all along his chest and belly and groin. His own body began to loosen in sympathetic reaction, until the Assassin exhaled audibly - even flexed tentatively against him, with a gruff, "Go on, move."

Arno moved. Slowly, dubiously at first, a gentle rock that went surprisingly uncommented upon. He was suddenly hyper-aware of things that had always only skimmed the edges of consciousness during his trysts - the rhythm of his partner's breathing, the rippling contraction of the muscles he was pressed against, the slightest sound that might uncurl from a throat. He kept searching so closely for undue signs of pain, that he nearly forgot himself and pulled halfway out to thrust inside more forcefully - and felt his gut clench with the first sparks of a far more desperate _need_ when Michel responded with a low moan.

No, Michel did not break if Arno hugged him just a little bit closer, if he thrust just a little bit harder, if he pushed just a little bit deeper. He did occasionally flinch, and then Arno would pause to let him catch his breath. But if Arno started too-gently again for his taste, Michel would make those encouraging _noises -_  more than he was usually wont to do - and Arno's baser instincts would clamber forward again and he'd press close-into-around that heated back, pulling-and-pushing deep into the pliant body.

It was a long and languid release. Arno was barely aware of the precipice before he was already tumbling over the edge; groaning through the deep, blissful tug low in his hips. He pressed open-mouthed kisses against Michel's neck and the edges of his shoulders, continued to pump himself lazily through the hot, slick grasp of the man's body even after he had finished spilling. As the initial burn of release slowly dissipated into a lingering warmth in his groin, he finally regained enough thought to slide a hand down beneath the man's belly, and paused in surprise as he found it already damp with Michel's own seed.

"Told you … it'd feel good," the Assassin huffed, words smeared against the bedding, the only visible corner of his mouth curling upwards just before the half-smirk was overtaken by a yawn.

Arno snorted, gently disengaging himself. "And I told you I had something better for you than either breakfast or lunch."

Michel hummed. "Not a liar," he admitted, gracious after the indulgence, eyes closed and, indeed, looking much more comfortable now.

There was not enough room for two people to lie side-by-side on the cot, and Arno did not want to drape his full weight across Michel's abused back. With a last, fond stroke down the man's flank, he regretfully slid off altogether, rearranging his trouser ties and rolling his shoulders against the now-tacky feel of sweat drying beneath his collar. "Try to get as much sleep as much as possible. We don't have anything urgent for the next few days. If the fall hasn't made you shy of heights, as soon as you recover we can move to - "

Michel started to shrug, then aborted the movement with a grunt. "Don't remember," he interrupted glibly.

Arno paused, frowning. "What do you mean you don't remember?"

"Don't remember," the man repeated, sounding sleepy and unconcerned. "Not even when my feet left the wall, really. Just remember thinking 'need to cover my head' and then suddenly I was not in the air anymore. And there were a lot of broken bits around me. Thanks, by the way, for that good hard thump on the back you gave me when you thought I was choking."

Arno blinked, wrestling briefly with frustration and exasperation both before finally snorting, the last nebulous knot in his chest melting away. "Ungrateful wretch, you _were_ choking," he retorted, shaking out the fallen sheets and draping one loosely over Michel's hips.

"On your terrible nursemaiding," the man squeezed out past another yawn, barely intelligible now. "Don't forget dinner this time."

"Get it yourself, if I'm so terrible," Arno retorted.

Michel only hummed absently in response, looking sprawled and mostly relaxed and almost like he had actually intended all along to sleep flopped upon his belly as he was.

Arno waited a few long breaths, then sighed and carded fingertips once through the ragged, dark hair and let himself quietly out of the room.


End file.
